Singularity
by Aluminium
Summary: Behind every psychopath lies an intricate philosophy.


**Singularity**

The first time Ryou spoke to Bakura, it was an abrupt interruption of something very important, and took place for the sole purpose, it seemed, of gloating. Naturally, this had hardly constituted satisfactory in terms of introductions to the evil side haunting one's brain. In fact, even a second conversation, as scant and one-sided as the first, had not done much to improve the situation.

Which is why, late at night, when he is absolutely sure that he will not be interrupted, Ryou slips the Millennium ring's cord around his neck, and waits.

The result is a rather anticlimactic silence.

When 'erm, Spirit?' and 'excuse me?' also fail to produce an adequate response, Ryou is willing to give up. After all, summoning the voice of a malicious entity shrouded in mystery could not be counted amongst his brighter ideas. Nonetheless, if he is to be the chosen bearer of an ancient and powerful mystical device (which the glowing spikes and ominous threats seem to allude to), then Ryou would rather like some background information on the matter. It is, he thinks, perfectly rational.

As is sitting on the corner of the couch and waiting, hoping for something that will never come and, if it does, will provide no great solution to any of his insecurities.

Sighing, he closes his eyes, seeking brief respite in the darkness behind them. He will, no doubt, look back on this endeavour with some amusement. There is already one student at Domino High with an inexplicable connection to what seems to be the fiercely fought battle of good and evil, and Ryou is unlikely to be the second.

And then gold, pressing its radiance to the insides of his eyelids, and Ryou can see only the dull gleam of ancient metal, worn and polished and shining. It fills him, caresses his cheek, leaves no room for emptiness, and it is soft and warm and somewhere approaching gentle. He opens his eyes.

Bakura evenly returns his gaze. Everything is slightly fuzzy around the edges, shapes softening into one. "You turned up…" Ryou murmurs, and the light is dazzling.

"Well," replies Bakura, stood tersely in the centre of the room, "I was hardly going to allow you to mentally insult your incredibly _important_ task of hosting my spirit. And in answer to your more pathetic queries, my plans are none of your concern." He turns away abruptly. "Now be a good little landlord and go to sleep."

Ryou shakes his head at the tirade, partially in dissent and partially to clear away the messy haze of gold obscuring the edges of his vision. "But couldn't I just know a bit? If I go to sleep now, I'll never know when you're about to take over my body. I don't like not knowing."

Bakura makes a 'tsk' sound, perhaps to indicate that he finds Ryou's arguments as inconsequential as they are flimsy. Ryou loses his train of thought as he notices that they really do look identical: one strand of their hair has been sticking up all day, and it is perfectly mirrored on both their heads. "Why do you look the same as me?"

"Why did you just change the subject?" Bakura folds his arms. "I'm starting to think that I should have stayed in the ring to speak to you. It would have been quicker."

A question springs to mind. "Why didn't you?"

Bakura looks at him, his glare piercing and calculating. "Just because my plans are of no concern to you… doesn't mean that you should not know about them."

* * *

That first night, Ryou finds himself riveted to his seat, completely incapable of moving or looking away. Bakura explains, carefully and simply, that he wants destruction, blood and possibly every one of the Millennium items, too. Then, feeling like a student of some warped field of psychology, Ryou asks why.

At first, his answer is only a rueful smile, or possibly a smirk – one mingles with the other to the extent that they might never have been separate entities. And then, when he repeats the question, a film of gold runs over his eyes, and the response seems somewhat muted, each word carefully sanded and polished beyond recognition. Mentally repeating them, Ryou finds that the meanings blossom, and wonders, very quietly, to what extent he is being manipulated, that seemingly incoherent phrases flourish and dance when he scrutinizes them.

In the end, the motivations boil down to a single ideology, or so Bakura tells him. He says, with a disdainful snort, that he is chained – captive - and that he cannot let this state of affairs continue. And this is because, more than anything, Bakura wants to be free. He wants to rip and claw through the structure of the world, and see the warm blood running from the raw welts torn by his claws. He wants the sky to blacken and the earth to cower and tremble until – mercifully – he lets it retreat to the carnivorous shadows. He wants to bask in the dying sunlight and whisper a mocking prayer in a dead tongue to gods who never listened. And when there is nobody left to run and scream and wrench at their own skin in agony and terror, then he will find release. Only then will the price have been paid; justice served; equality restored.

Then, in the midst of this oasis of oblivion, he will laugh, and only the shadows will answer. They will grow and erode at his tired shackles, and finally – _finally _– Bakura will be free.

Ryou does not know how to respond, and so he yawns, and asks to go to sleep. He assumes that contact with Bakura will last, simple because he sees no alternative. The notion of never finding out the spirit of the ring's entire story is inconceivable.

He is, as it turns out, quite right.

Meetings become habitual, rather than an exception to normal routine. Every night, Ryou will encounter a whisper of a presence at the corner of his vision, or a flash of gold just out of reach, and he will turn to examine it, only to find – Bakura.

What he gleans from each conversation is interesting and useful enough to outweigh any negative consequences. Ryou is not forfeiting himself to some great evil. Rather, conversing with one.

Bakura has very many things to say.

He explains the rudimentary workings of their connection: the ring. So long as Ryou is in close proximity to it, they can speak. The spikes are purely a safety precaution, and Bakura had only needed to use them once, anyway. Ryou is a useful tool, and should therefore wear the ring as often as possible, so as to minimise wasted chances for Bakura to advance his plot.

Not that Bakura will ever mention specifics of his plot.

Ryou does not mind. He is patient, and also curious, which is a far more powerful motivation. Curled up on his couch, or perched, cross-legged on his bed, he listens. Bakura loves it, because, for all his strengths, he is an egotist, and any audience delights him. Ryou's impartiality irks him, and he often throws pointed comments, but he thrives under the careful, precise questions and Ryou's pressing desire for knowledge.

"And how do you plan on defeating Yugi?"

But Bakura only shakes his head, sharp teeth flashing in vicious mirth. He will defeat him fully, completely and painfully. The spirit within the puzzle will writhe and sob, disgraced in his failure and thwarted in his defiance. Nonetheless, there is a point where openness must end, and Ryou receives no further details on the matter.

* * *

Sometimes, they talk about meaningless whimsy – nothing important, and yet it always seems more relevant than Ryou can comprehend.

Bakura says that he does not have a heart. He says it with an air of certainty – not even in the way that Ryou is now accustomed to hearing him speak, mocking and faux-contemplative. That is how Ryou knows it is important. In answer to some query or other (they're countless, so fishing a specific from his memory is difficult), Bakura answers, with a complete lack of interest, that he does not have a heart. It is a throwaway little detail - unambiguously true, but not of any particular importance.

It is a little jarring.

"But how can one be judged, with no heart to weigh down the scales?" Ryou asks, vague knowledge of Egyptian mythology pervading his mind. They had spoken about Egypt some time before, he is sure.

Bakura says that the gods will bow before him, and they will perish one by one, returning to the emptiness of all death. What judgement can await him_ then_?

Ryou thinks. "And what of the people who were judged already, left godless and alone?"

Gone. Irrelevant. Ryou may think what he will, but may not pity them.

"And… what about me?"

Bakura smiles, not genuinely, but closer to it than usual. Sit at the foot of his throne, he says, cloaked in shadows, wreathed in stars, which he will pluck from the sky itself. Stay, he whispers, and promise undying loyalty. Be by his side for all of eternity, and be rewarded as befits his host.

"For all of eternity?"

Bakura grins, feral and catlike. It is not the first time that he has made the offer. What is there to stop Ryou, he asks, when he will rend all natural forces to jagged, broken pieces? Bakura's eyes narrow. No rules apply, he adds. They are all dust.

His eyes are very, very dark, but Ryou thinks he can see gold in their depths, and each of Bakura's words has a peculiar resonance. A harmonic rings with every syllable, echoing softly in Ryou's ears, about his wrists, playing with his hair. A delicate, ethereal force holds him in place, but it is strong, and soft like gold, and the words say that he will be coveted and cherished and-

Bakura silences him with a glance. Stop thinking, landlord. Ryou will have everything he deserves when he has won. He tells Ryou every night: there is an eternity to plan for. Stay. He will, won't he?

"Yes." Ryou has never uttered a single syllable with such certainty. Evidently, Bakura feels the same, because the golden warmth cups his cheek, and Ryou leans into it. He closes his eyes, and for a moment, they are still.

"Do… do you really not have a heart?"

Sighing in a way that indicates that the topic is being flogged to death and back, Bakura reaches out, and briefly, their fingertips melt together. With a translucent, silvery wrist, he guides their shared hand to Ryou's chest. A heart enough for both of them, he says, and rolls his eyes at the ludicrous _poetry_ of it all. Ryou, he says, pities and despairs and is terrified that Bakura might win, and those are emotions that Bakura can live without.

"I'm not afraid."

Of Bakura? He is amused.

"Of you winning!"

Ryou's fear, he muses, is irrational, but it is a decided presence about his conscious. Even if Ryou doesn't want it to be.

"How can I stop being afraid?"

Gently, Bakura pulls apart their hands. It is like moving through treacle. Ryou's eyelids droop. Bakura snorts, partially in disdain for the obvious display of weakness, and partially, Ryou knows, because he finds the entire situation amusing. A little more bluntly, Bakura expresses this himself: Ryou can't hear what Bakura has to say if he falls asleep.

"Stay."

For eternity, Bakura states, hardly glancing over. And Ryou does realise that it is one in the morning?

"Mmhm."

A little while later, Ryou drifts awake, only to find the foot of his bed cold and undisturbed. "I think you do have a heart," he confesses apologetically to empty space. A whisper of a smile brushes his lips, and he presses two fingers to them. But they are his own, so he drifts back into the comforting clasp of dreams of gold skies and black landscapes, etched in blood.

The echo of _stay, stay, stay…_ reverberates through every thought, and he realises that it is wholly possible that curiosity is not his sole motivation any more.

* * *

Ryou sees no reason to keep the ring on when he is reading, or brushing his hair. It is a conduit, and he uses it as such. He puts it on before he goes out, or when he feels in the mood for Bakura's dark philosophy, but otherwise, it stays on his bedside table, and the sheen of gold is beautiful and treacherous when he stares at it as he tries to get to sleep at night. The arrangement suits both Bakuras, and so they do not mention it, or break from routine. Not usually.

"You know, it seems awfully rude to keep me confined when you aren't in the mood to talk."

Ryou waits for what is to come, because Bakura never trails off after just one or two sentences. He can talk animatedly of his cause for hours on end, or brood silently until approached by the unwary, but he rarely settles for anything in between.

Predictably, he continues. "I suppose it goes both ways. One hardly equals the other, though. Not at all. Some might say I am indebted. And you?"

Bakura's flashes of speech, tiny fragments of what he wants to say, are characteristic of a certain mood. He wants a conversation. Leaning against the wall at the foot of Ryou's bed, pondering the reflection of his own eyes, or else the ceiling, he speaks in half meanings and half arguments, obviously making the assumption that the other pieces will slot in. A simple assumption to make, though not necessarily accurate. Or perhaps, Ryou reflects, Bakura thinks him intelligent enough to gauge the meaning himself.

"Are you going to philosophize in the corner all night, or can I wring some intelligent conversation out of you?" Irritation, but only at a lack of connection, and tempered with a wry smile (but not the bad kind of wry smile, because every facet of Bakura has an equal and an opposite).

"I was thinking."

"I noticed."

"What keeps track of debt?"

The corner of Bakura's mouth twitches, as if he is stifling laughter – something he is prone to do if there is a particularly interesting strand of debate to be cornered and slaughtered, and maniacal behaviour would get in the way.

Ryou waits.

"Even if no one is watching, or counting, or keeping track, debt still exists. Being indebted to someone is not a material thing, so why should it have to be seen as something physical, which can be bought and sold and forgotten? Debt, revenge, gratitude and all other ties must be assessed by individuals. To go back to the initial question, am I indebted to you?" Bakura stares at him now, motionless, coiled like a snake. He will strike as soon as Ryou has finished speaking. Of all the responses he could make, the best would be something uncontroversial – and yet Bakura will argue with almost anything, merely for the merit of a viewpoint itself. If he disagrees with it, so much the better, although he will make it very clear that the point he is pressing is not his own.

"I don't believe you are. We could tally up everything either of us has ever done…"

"A list of petty grievances is hardly a definitive answer."

"You're glorifying debt."

"Am I?"

"Yes. When does 'petty' become 'significant'?"

"You would have a threshold?"

"You would decide at random?"

They pause for a moment, Ryou completely derailed from his line of thought and slightly confused at his own answers, pulled from him at Bakura's whim. Bakura waits patiently for him to stop reeling and gather his thoughts. Talking to Bakura is that method of thinking usually accessed before sleep, in which each fleeting thought is tangentially connected, abstract and innovative and liable to shatter at a single solid touch. Eventually, Ryou manages to speak, although he still finds the entire debate somewhat woolly. "You mentioned revenge."

"I did."

"Why?"

"Irrelevant."

"But it's connected."

"By a spider's thread."

"Isn't everything like that?"

"Perhaps."

"You don't want to talk about it?"

They subside again, lapsing into passive contemplation. Bakura considers the ring. Ryou considers Bakura. A film of gold settles over Ryou's eyes, and for a moment everything in the room gleams.

"…No."

"Hm?"

"In answer to your question."

"Sorry. I don't remember what it was."

Shrugging, Bakura leans forward, ignoring Ryou, who instinctively shies away. Grabbing the corner of the ring, which is propped on Ryou's bedside table, he tugs, and nothing happens. Feeling awfully awkward at being so close to someone (or, specifically, Bakura), Ryou tries not to flinch before speaking. "You're not solid, so I don't think you can pick it up."

Bakura leans up to give him the most exasperated glare he has ever seen, complete with a flicker of eyelids and a quirked eyebrow. "Yes, I had no idea that I was incorporeal. I seize control of your body at regular intervals for fun."

"So then, why…"

Bakura twists and collapses, so that he can fold his arms behind his head. Resting on the pillow, he leaves no room at the top of the bed. Ryou wonders if the gesture would be less pointed if not for his last comment.

"Because, host, I felt the irrepressible urge to check." Bakura closes his eyes. The conversation topic has been dismissed.

"I still don't understand. Sorry." Ryou tries to shuffle himself along the wall and make his way to the end of the bed without being noticed. He is unsuccessful, and one arm wraps around his waist, thin and decidedly warm.

"Impulse. The universe might work differently if I check to make sure that it does not."

Attempts to disentangle himself failing miserably, Ryou sighs, and shuffles into an approximation of a comfortable position, somewhere between kneeling and sitting at Bakura's side.

"It just doesn't make sense, that someone would do something like that, even knowing that…" He trails off as Bakura lets out a frustrated noise and pulls him down so that they see eye to eye.

"You are a hypocrite. You are the most irrational person that I have encountered this side of the millennia."

"…Thank you, I think."

Laughter, unbidden, and Ryou cannot feel air against his face, because spirits do not breathe. Warmth is altogether easy to simulate, and natural, he supposes, and because he thinks it, it might just be true.

"You're thinking again. Stop that – the look of pain is almost making me sympathetic."

"Hm."

"…And don't think I didn't realise you just snuggled closer."

"Heh…"

"Tch. I suppose I am indebted. Are you going to whine at me, or can I leave? You hardly seem in the mood for philosophy."

"I'll talk more, if you'd like. What would you like me to talk about?"

Their customary silence fills the room, and Ryou feels no need to break it. They lie for a while, perfectly equal and opposite, two very dark eyes mirroring two darker. Eventually, Bakura disappears, insubstantial as mist and most likely bored, and in the moments before sleep, Ryou lies awake. Each thought chases another's tail, and each is as brittle and precious as spun glass. Tapping one, he makes them all shatter, and dreams catch up to him before he can gather the pieces.

* * *

In the midst of a battle to determine the nature and existence of reality itself, Ryou wakes up in the dirt. Finding all his limbs secured in the appropriate places, he stands and, locating the blimp, he walks toward it. It is not a long walk, but blood loss does make it rather disorientating. Fortunately, this prevents him thinking.

When he does begin to think again, sat in the blimp's small infirmary, he realises the conspicuous absence of his Millennium ring.

He does not panic, as Mai is deep asleep a few meters away, presumably recovering from whatever rendered her unconscious, and doing so might wake her. However, he does permit himself to feel worried, and then to methodically scour every unlocked room to which he has access. Doing so is – predictably - fruitless, so he returns to Mai, who wakes up.

They chat until their friends return, telling them that the world is saved. Ryou smiles, because it would be counterproductive to both Yugi and Bakura for it to be destroyed. He may have liaisons with more than one side, but that does not mean that he wants them both thwarted.

Later, he finds the ring, and reality neatly reasserts itself alongside the status quo. Nonetheless, Bakura does not talk to him until they are at home again, alone in the dim light and exhausted from what Ryou can only assume was a necessary trip halfway across Domino city.

He has learnt enough not to inquire about specifics.

"Your arm?" Bakura appears entirely uninterested, preoccupied with shifting from foot to foot; tapping a rhythm on his right arm; teasing a lock of hair through his fingers into fine white strands.

"It doesn't hurt. Did you stab me for Marik, or did he do it?"

Bakura stops short, his gaze falling on Ryou's. He is, as is often the case, standing, though tonight he seems particularly restless. Not a feeling that Ryou, barely sat up on his bed, can share. Bakura's agitation is inexplicable, at any rate: more pieces seem to be falling into place for Yugi's recovery of his other self's lost memories, but how relevant this is to Bakura's plan was never explained to Ryou.

"I stabbed you. I inhabit your body – I would hardly entrust the maiming of it to anyone else." Bakura, of course, does not ask how Ryou knows that he was stabbed on Marik's whim. Their thoughts are linked enough that he can pilfer Ryou's realisation as soon as it occurs, examine its inner workings, and ignore it. Ryou is well aware that what goes unspoken is what Bakura will pay the most heed to.

"Not even to me?" As soon as the question leaves his lips, he knows it is foolish. Obvious, meaningless and useless. Voiced merely to provoke a response to something too sensitive to suggest outright.

Bakura considers, and bluntly ignores the foreign concept of subtly. "Would you rather I included you more in the progress towards my final battle with the Pharaoh?"

On occasion, speech is a mere formality. The look Ryou gives Bakura is more than enough to convey a his thoughts.

"Feh." Bakura shrugs, indifferent. "I won't trust anyone with my plan – not carrying it out. That task is solely my own duty."

"I made the Egyptian model for you! And the roleplay campaign."

"Do you know their ultimate purpose?"

"…No."

For a moment, they lapse into uneasy silence, Ryou brimming with unanswered questions, Bakura dismissing them before they can even be conjured into coherent thought. Bakura quickly tires of this, beginning to drum his fingers again. Finally, he concedes defeat (possibly to relieve the intense frustration of an uncooperative audience) and sits, contemplating the darkness of the slit between the curtains. When he speaks, he sounds detached. "You'll be rewarded – I told you. Is that not enough?"

"How can you think it is?" Ryou finds himself strangely calm, the question idle rather than confrontational.

"I've told you everything necessary – I've imparted my philosophy to you. All I ask is that you would remain loyal to me once I succeed in defeating a single foe."

"Once you defeat him and destroy everything I hold dear."

"Since when have you minded?" Bakura seems, if anything, amused.

"What you tell me…" Ryou struggles with the words, each one ungainly and misshapen. Bakura's eloquence, or at least the meticulous enunciation of each word, makes him feel inarticulate and ignorant. "…It… it isn't necessarily bad, but… it isn't enough. Destruction, on its own, with no justification-"

"I have given you an exceptional number of arguments in justification."

"And yet you expect blind faith from me! I hear the theory, but I never see it put into practise. I just wake up in hospital the next day." Ryou cannot bear Bakura's intense scrutiny. Anger at his words would be far more predictable – more satisfying. A blank gaze, all empty eyes masking churning thought, is enough to make him stare at the floor, desperately hoping for a reaction.

When it comes, it is far from satisfying. "You will see. I trust no one but myself to take an active role in my plans. Be patient." And then, because Bakura sees no reason to continue a worn line of conversation, he speaks over Ryou's first musters of a response. "You said my philosophy was one of destruction."

"How is this releve-"

"Relevance? Overrated. Besides, I am only extrapolating on something that you said earlier."

Ryou thinks about this, and eventually comes to the conclusion that if he listens, he is far less likely to be snapped at. "Destruction?"

"Indeed. Destruction and creation… are identical." Once again, Ryou finds himself sinking into the peculiarly childlike state of listening to someone speak: of hearing and questioning their views with an intense simplicity and a thirst for knowledge. Bakura always seems more lifelike, when he allows himself to speak. Every motion is fluid and alive and enticing. More enticing than gold. "Both manifest in explosions of activity – in the urge to manipulate and mould reality. In branding my actions destructive, you are exemplifying this duality. My ideals are no different from any others-" Ryou looks sceptical, and Bakura rolls his eyes "-though superficially, they may seem to be so. In essence, I – and all other great shapers of the world – exist solely to perpetuate the same cycle."

No spark of connection. Ryou feels hopelessly inadequate. "A cycle of destruction and creation?"

Bakura looks like he might bang his forehead against the wall in frustration, but chooses instead to lean in towards him, as though Ryou has merely missed some subtle facial expression that might convey the entirety of what Bakura says. "Of motion – only ever _motion_, culminating in a sort of philosophical singularity. One point beyond which all else is inconceivable."

"Then let me help you to create that. I want to help you." And still, Bakura is irritated, exhaling harshly at how _obtuse_ one person might be. Ryou sees clearly that, in Bakura's eyes, he has regressed.

"No. You are an observer, and always have been. We are… a microcosm of grander designs, you and I." His smile is as fond as it is ironic – Bakura flashes between emotions with the speed and predictability of a thunderstorm. "Be the observer, along with the rest of humanity. I'll be the gods." He seems to find satisfaction in that statement, because he leans back again, a victor in his eternally waging war on ignorance.

Still, there is one more enquiry Ryou must make, hesitant as he is to do so. It will, after all, upset his carefully crafted balance between complacency and complicity. "Bakura?"

"Landlord?" Evidently, Bakura has anticipated it, because he looks utterly unaware of what Ryou is about to say, which is never the case.

"How long have you been controlling my mind?"

Another impression of mild, indifferent confusion. "Since you got the ring. Or did you not notice the people falling into comas around you?"

"That wasn't what I meant."

"Oh?"

Ryou attempts a look of brave defiance, but gives up in favour of meeting Bakura's eyes, which is always a difficult endeavour, given their tendency to literally stare into his soul. "You've been controlling my actions when I'm in charge of my body. I worked it out!"

Bakura steeples his fingers beneath his chin. Bored, it seems. "If you mean that, through talking to you, I affect the way you behave, I'm sure that's true."

"But- no." Ryou stops, wondering if this is the level of pointed incomprehension he displays towards Bakura. "You're twisting what I'm saying."

"What are you attempting to say?"

"That you brainwashed me!"

"How so?"

Ryou's mind reels. Bakura must be bluffing. He has to be. He is good enough at doing so. No, Bakura knows what Ryou is talking about, because Bakura has been manipulating Ryou.

Bakura's lips quirk into a smile. "Or, if you can't answer that, is your mind playing tricks?"

For a few brief seconds, uncertainty claws at Ryou's mind, and then he realises triumphantly that he has evidence. "Gold, behind my eyelids. I keep on seeing flashes of it. It's always there, whenever I begin to doubt what you're saying."

"Remarkably absent now, isn't it?"

Ryou searches Bakura's face for the slightest trace of insincerity. Not a glimmer. He looks away.

"Whatever the root of your… hallucinations, be it my mind or yours, is inconsequential. It's an interesting concept, but not one that I wish to spend any further time discussing." Suddenly, there is a trace of heat on his neck, and a whisper of movement, and Ryou nearly flinches away before a voice tickles his ear almost confidentially. "After all, tomorrow… I win."

"What?"

Bakura laughs, low and deadly, rocking back on his knees. "Exactly what I said. The search for the Pharaoh's memories will bring you to the stone tablet in the museum, correct? From there, I will establish the final shadow game – how I will do so is none of your concern – and I will win. The odds are entirely in my favour."

"It… will end?" Suddenly, mind control or lack thereof seems entirely inconsequential.

"No. Never. From then on, I reign. The world is mine, and I will do as I will with it. I trust your memory does not need refreshing on the matter?"

Dizziness assails his senses, and Ryou is grateful that he is resting against a wall. Bakura seems uncomfortably close, and he shrugs him away. Grey light is beginning to pool between the curtains. They have talked until dawn.

Ryou is uncertain whether the sun will rise, once Bakura is in power. Entirely inconsequential, but an interesting consideration.

"Having second thoughts?" Bakura asks, and it sounds strangely sardonic, though Ryou knows the question is asked in earnest.

"No," he answers briefly, and he is not lying. But the syllable sticks to his tongue. Words are unruly things. Bakura laughs again, but more quietly – he is waiting for Ryou to explain. "You were right, back when you told me I was scared. It doesn't matter, though, does it?"

"No." Bakura's voice is a pastiche of Ryou's own, and if they were not so used to it, it might be uncanny. "It doesn't. I wouldn't let you attempt to stop me, never mind succeed. But morality shouldn't be entirely pragmatic. You would try anyway – to stop me, that is - if you felt you should." Lazily, Bakura flops onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "Why don't you?" His eyes flicker shut. Evidently, the lack of sleep is starting to affect even him.

"I haven't been swayed one way or the other." Ryou curls his arms around his knees, attempting vaguely to massage some feeling into the deadened joints. "If Yugi wins, I will be able to live happily with my friends, knowing that justice has been served and that the other Yugi has moved on to the afterlife. You will die. If you win, I will live with you, knowing that justice has been served. Everyone else will die. You said it yourself, though: morality can't be entirely pragmatic. I can't abandon one side or the other, even if I had convinced myself that I could, early on."

Bakura eyes him like a particularly fascinating lab experiment. "You are… unique, to say the least, host."

"The feeling's mutual," Ryou mutters, and the glare he gets in response is hardly piercing or severe. For once, the silence seems comfortable – neither of them know when they will have another chance to experience it.

After all, tomorrow, there is a world to be won.

**I feel the need to say that I was reading Waiting For Godot whilst writing this, and also that you may be able to tell that my sister and I have a pet theory that Bakura is Tyler Durden. If you have not spent an English A Level highlighting all the homoerotic subtext in Fight Club, then you might not have realised, but it is surprisingly similar to YuGiOh (if less violent than the first chapters of the manga). Hope you enjoyed it.**


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